Dream Ward
Euphemia awakens with Dagfinn’s instructions clear in her mind: make the wakefulness draught using the notes in his journal.
But in order to do that, she’ll first need to crack the seal to his study.
Euphemia throws on a new surcoat, this one maroon like the sky in Helheim, and haphazardly ties her thick hair back so it won’t be in her face while she works.
Then she heads to Dagfinn’s study.
Walking the halls, the manor feels different this morning.
Quieter, perhaps.
Euphemia pauses outside the study, a creeping sensation prickling along the back of her neck. Like she is being watched.
She gives one quick glance to the sconce on the wall.
The flame flickers as any normal flame would.
She turns her attention back on the mechanism, determined not to be deterred.
Observing the progress Cybele made the previous night, Euphemia begins the slow and steady work of turning the rings, watching how each rotation affects the others. She moves one ring. Then the next. Observing. Anticipating.
Until the last piece of metal finally clicks into place.
An image unfolds across the rings.
A cliffside town.
A fleet of ships approaching through the peaceful sea.
A man standing at the helm, proud and triumphant.
Euphemia cannot make out his features, but there is no doubt in her mind that this image is meant to commemorate the moment when the Varinssons overtook Thorfell Crag.
Nausea twists the pit of her stomach. She doubts it was as peaceful or glorious as the image makes it seem.
Though she has never witnessed conquest herself, rumors of the bloodshed and horror it causes have reached the Saint’s Hearth before.
It is a problem she does not have the answer for right now.
Euphemia unknots her insides and pushes through the door.
Inside, it is exactly as she remembers it, exactly as the dream showed her.
The chamber is cluttered and dark, every corner of the room serving a specific purpose.
There are shelves for storing various herbs, salts, rocks, and fluids she cannot decipher.
A bookshelf on one side of the room holds dozens of books, and though Euphemia cannot read the letters on the covers, she would guess it’s Dagfinn’s personal collection on illnesses and medicine.
Spying the table across the center of the room, Euphemia enters, closing the door gently behind her.
She breathes in the musty air, something earthy like sage attempting to mask it.
She ducks under suspended herbs that rustle like whispers and she approaches the desk. Now that she’s closer, she sees the singe marks and stains. The stacks of books with loose parchment strewn about. The distillation coils and copper pots.
And among all the clutter, she somehow finds it immediately.
The leatherbound journal he told her about.
Euphemia picks it up with veneration.
Inside might be the answers Kelda has been searching for months now. For a troubling moment, Euphemia considers retrieving her. She might like to be here for this. Might be desperate enough to help her.
But Kelda has already spent months watching her son sleep, clinging to scraps of hope.
What if this attempt proves fruitless?
Euphemia doesn’t want to bring her hopes up just to smash them down again.
She opens the journal.
The pages flutter beneath her fingers, as if taken by the wind.
They stop on the very entry she’s searching for, the one Dagfinn described to her. She only knows it’s the correct one because of his helpful nearly lifelike sketches on the pages of the herbs and flowers required.
But Euphemia can hardly admire them as the breeze twists around her unseen.
Euphemia glances around the room, confused. If there is a spirit in the manor as Kelda suggested, why is it that sometimes the ghost seems to be helpful and other times it is erratic and frightening?
Unless, perhaps, there is more than one.
“Thank you,” she says stiffly, just in case the ghosts require respect.
Then, Euphemia takes the journal to the shelves and starts pulling down the ingredients. Dagfinn already told her what she would need to find, most of which she is already familiar with: yarrow, nettle, oak bark, black tea, and sugar.
But there are a few ingredients that even Euphemia found questionable.
When Dagfinn mentioned henbane, Euphemia all but gasped. The pale-yellow flower was one of the first plants her father taught Euphemia and her sisters to recognize because of how deadly ingesting them can be.
“Ah,” Dagfinn had said at her shock. “Yes, the flowers are toxic, but the seeds are safe. And their effects are required for this draught. Do not leave them out.”
Against her better judgment, Euphemia retrieves the vial of henbane seeds, the cracks in her palm soothed against the cool glass, and adds it to the pile of ingredients she’s started on the worktable.
When she thinks she’s ready, she reviews the list in her head one more time and realizes she’s missing one thing.
Roseroot.
She had never heard of such a plant before, so he had described it to her.
“A hearty herb with a yellow flower atop a tall stem with leaves sprouting throughout the entire stalk,” Dagfinn had said. “I keep some petals in a jar on the bottom right of the shelf. You won’t miss it. But, just in case, look for the label with this.”
He had traced a shape in the dust by the windowsill then and said it was the letter R.
Euphemia returns to the shelves. She finds the bottom right cubby. Retrieves the jar marked with an R.
But the jar is empty.
Euphemia blinks furiously.
She scans the shelves again, searching the bottom left corner in case she misheard him. Then the top right and top left. Then every single jar on the shelf. But none resemble the roseroot he’s described to her.
Frustration mangles itself inside her like tangled rope.
This can’t be happening.
Not when they are so close.
Sighing, Euphemia closes her eyes and tilts her head to the sky.
Without familiar knowledge of the plant, Euphemia can’t do anything but wait for another night to pass, so she can ask Dagfinn in the dream realm again. Perhaps he can tell her where to find it in town, or where she might be able to forage some herself.
Feeling slightly dejected, Euphemia leaves the rest of the ingredients on the table, and quietly slips out of the room, gently closing the door behind her. She rotates the fourth ring on the lock for good measure.
But as the lock shifts, Euphemia hears a knock coming from the downstairs.
She makes her way through the corridor to peer down from the upper landing as Asvald emerges from the sitting room and opens the door.
Maryam stands on the other side, a burlap sack in hand.
Euphemia starts inching down the steps as Asvald calls to Kelda in the parlor.
She practically runs to door, enveloping Maryam in a hearty embrace that makes Euphemia wonder if perhaps they won’t have to wait for her tincture at all.
“Oh, Maryam, I owe you a great deal,” Kelda says.
But the rosy-cheeked woman waves off the sentiment. “Nonsense. We take care of our own.” Then spying Euphemia from over Kelda’s shoulder, Maryam calls to her. “Euphemia. I was hoping I’d see you again. How are you feeling, dear?”
It takes Euphemia a moment to move her mind away from the possibility of Dagfinn’s cure back to the moment Euphemia fainted in the market.
She musters a polite smile. “Much better now. Thank you.”
“Glad to hear it,” Maryam says, eyes shining. “If I had known, I wouldn’t have mentioned him. But he was a good man. I hope you know that. And—” hearty laughter bursts from her as she presses her hands to her cheeks. “My goodness. I’m doing it again.”
Euphemia joins her chuckling. “It’s alright. I promise. I’m alright now. It just caught me by surprise last time, is all.”
And it surprises her to find that she is alright.
Perhaps not as unmarred as she once was—there is a part of her that will always carry this shadow, this dark cloud.
But she knows that when she faces the next monster that comes for her, she will fight to survive.
She will live.
And by living, she will carry on her father’s memory.
The thought of him now leaves a warm impression on her chest. She wants to do right by him. And with Maryam there, she does something impulsive, something she thinks her father would have done were he still here.
“If you need help repairing your cooperage, please let me know.”
Surprise flutters across Maryam’s face.
Kelda and Asvald turn curious gazes toward Euphemia as well.
A smile broadens across Maryam’s. “Very kind of you, Lady Euphemia. I will keep that in mind.” Then, turning to Kelda, she adds, “Good luck with the ritual.”
Kelda nods her thanks, and Maryam bids them all a pleasant farewell.
As Asvald closes the door, Kelda peers into the burlap bag.
Euphemia peers over her shoulder. “Is that—”
“A dream ward.”
Kelda holds up the talisman as they all gather around.
Four pieces of pale wood are tied together at the ends by black threads. The same thread is woven into the center, a soothing, spiral pattern with a hole in the center.
Carved into each piece of wood are symbols Euphemia has never seen before, not on Kelda’s hands nor etched above the doors. A different language than any of them know.
Hanging from the ends are feathers.
Kelda fingers the soft edges of each feather. “There here are why it’s so difficult to make such a charm. Do you know where these feathers come from?”
Euphemia shakes her head, eager to find out.
Asvald leans closer, examining the taupe colored one with dark brown streaks. “Is it an owl feather?”
“Not just any owl,” Kelda says mystically. “Four feathers from four owls from four different parts of the world.” Gently, she sets the talisman back into the sack. She looks from Asvald to Euphemia with barely restrained tears in her eyes. “Now, let’s go wake Dagfinn up.”
They stand in the cramped tower chamber, circled around Dagfinn’s bed.
Once again, Kelda removes the dream ward from the bag, tossing the burlap to the ground.
She holds it over Dagfinn’s bed, a shudder in her breath.